Road Maps to Nowhere
by hayleylovesgiraffes
Summary: In which Santana Lopez gets an online journal.


I should have the next chapter of HW up in two or three days. I finished this one first. Also, I have a beta now! Arkantoz, rocks! (And a million more thank yous)

Let me know what you guys think!

* * *

><p><em>Satan L. is online. <em>

I don't take things well.

Wait. Let me be more accurate.

I'm a natural planner. A born list-maker. I see a problem, I break it down, I find a solution. It's what's gotten me this far. (And let me tell you; I have come far).

When I was six, I went to an all-girls Catholic school in Florida. It was the worst. It was run by Nuns who had sold their soul and given up what is arguably the most fulfilling thing about being human just so they could maybe gain entrance into a place that may not exist.

I'm talking about orgasms just in case you didn't get that.

Oh, and heaven.

Anyway, when I was six, the Catholic school I went to (Sisters of Mercy) had a food chain. Don't let the tacky uniforms, outrageous tuition, or exclusivity fool you. Private schools are just like public schools. Maybe even a little worse because the kids in private schools don't have the kind of parents who put an emphasis on behavior so the kids acted like rabid fucking banshees on a three day coke binge. _Seriously_.

I was at the bottom of the food chain. There were many reasons why. The most important being: I had a tendency to speak when not spoken to, I would call students out of their names (i.e You Dumb Elephant= Stacy Howell), and I had brown skin. Which I know shouldn't have been a problem seeing as though Florida is fucking rampant with Cubans. For the fucking record Anna Benson, if you're reading this, I AM NOT CUBAN. You and that Dumb Elephant could really use a brief sesh in geography. But, whatever, I'm over it.

I was bullied every day and I honestly thought I was okay with it. _No_. I was okay with it. But, it's like scar tissue. There was the initial scar. Which I guess would be the two weeks into first grade. I was eating lunch by myself in the cafeteria when one of my lovely classmates decided to walk behind me, yank at one of my pigtails and just move along as if nothing happened.

And I let them. They moved on with their oh so interesting first grade lives and I said nothing. I kept my head tucked down and I let my tears spill into my lunch. My mouth got me into the most shit because even though I didn't fight back, I couldn't stop the insults that flew out. I pushed them, they pushed back ten times harder. After the initial scar healed, they ripped it apart again. The tissue built and built and unbeknownst to those pre-teen little pricks in red blazers and bobby socks they were creating a monster.

Me.

The final straw for my parents, who had done their best to ignore the bruises I would come home with, was when four girls, including Anna Benson and that Dumb Elephant, jumped me outside of St. Mary's Hall. This was third grade: I was nine. Anna Benson was still a skeezy cunt and Dumb Elephant was still dumb. (And a fucking elephant).

I say "jumped me" because it's exactly what they did. Sure, it wasn't like a knife fight, they were nine year old white girls from suburban Florida, they'd never heard of shank, let alone known how to fashion one. But, as soon as I rounded the corner, Dumb Elephant jumped on my back (can you imagine?) and as soon as I hit the ground they started kicking and hitting and spitting.

It went on for five minutes. I know because when I hit the ground the first bell signaling class rang and it wasn't until five minutes later that the tardy bell rang that they ran off giggling. I laid there tasting the blood in my mouth. I don't know how long because I passed out and when I came to I was in the infirmary with my mom and abuela who were screaming at the top of their lungs demanding retribution and answers. For which, there weren't any.

My brother sat by my bedside the entire time. He's older than me and even back then he felt a need to protect me from the world. He'd soon realize that the demons weren't little girls or lecherous boys or some monster in my closet.

They were inside of me.

My dad sued the school. My dad. Ha. All that time I spent lying in the bed recovering from a broken wrist, a cracked rib, and a shit ton of cuts, he spoke a total of nine words to me.

"Are you okay?"

Yes, daddy.

"We're getting you out of here."

He then jumped on his phone and while the women reprimanded the people they had entrusted with my safety; my father was already rounding up the best legal team his money could buy. Initially, the school and its lawyers tried to dispute the claims. They had no idea it was happening, the girls in question were top students, blah blah blah. But, fear is a powerful thing. As soon as my dad's team threatened to take it to the press, the school's lawyers caved. The Catholic Church had enough problems already. They didn't need one involving racism in elementary school and the criminalization of JonBenét look-a-likes.

2.3 million and some change.

That's how much all the scar tissue was worth. Well, that and our silence.

That money, at this very moment, sits in a trust. For me. My college tuition and the expenses that come with it will be deducted, but other than that when I turn twenty-one it's all mine. A gift from my father. A man's who means "I love you" when he says "How much do you need?"

We moved to Lima three days after we got the settlement. My dad's practice had been pretty lucrative even though he was just one of a ton in Florida, so he decided to set up shop out here. At the time I felt so noble when we were moving. I'd never heard of Lima before and when anyone said Ohio all I could think of was rows and rows of farms and hillbillies and bad dental work. I felt like one of those missionaries the ladies at Sisters of Mercy always spoke about. They would go to all of these foreign countries and preach the Good Book. _Well, _my family and I were going to Lima, Ohio and we were bringing medicine to those rednecks!

I spent the summer before fourth grade examining myself in the full length mirror that hung in my mother's closet. My legs were so long; it made my body look out of proportion. Back then, I had this really wavy, thick black hair that refused to settle down no matter how many times I ran a brush through it. My skin was darker than usual, which made me cringe. I had spent too much time in the sun before moving. If I got that much shit in fucking Florida for looking different, then what the hell did my parents expect it to be like in middle America, Lima fucking Ohio. _OHIO_. Come on!

Whatever. Even during my awkward phase, I knew I was a pretty girl.

Where was I?

Oh. Summer of fourth grade. We moved before Abuela. She had to sell the house my Abuelo built to move out there with us. My father was livid. My mother cried a lot when she found out. My abuela wouldn't hear it though. It was her decision and hers alone. It hurt her a lot because this was the last concrete reminder of him, but she knew it would hurt more being down there and us being up here. Especially me.

I was the favorite. She made no attempt to hide the fact. Not to say that she didn't love my brother. She just loved me more. She said she saw herself in me. Do you know what it's like for a nine year old girl to hear that? That the one person you look up to more than anyone else in the world sees themselves in you? If you don't, then me explaining it to you won't help you understand.

She sold the house and used the money to buy another one in a subdivision a few blocks away from our own. It was smaller and warmer in a "sketchy part" of the city called Lima Heights. We live adjacent to it. But, for fucks sakes the seediness was greatly exaggerated by some. (Years later by me.) Sure, the houses weren't perfect, some of the lawns weren't maintained and a few of the cars were broken down. Crime, though, was practically nonexistent save for the occasional mail boxes that were knocked down in the night and tipped trash cans. This is Lima after all.

My abuela made sure her flight got in before I had to leave for my first day of school. She pulled me away from my mom and she told me in the crispest English I've ever heard her speak, _"Santana, don't you dare take anyone's shit." _

I shook my head but didn't say a word. She had this look in her eyes that frightened and made me giddy at the same time. She patted my back and kissed my head but before she let me walk away she gave me a hug that crushed my lungs. She was more afraid of what this new set of kids might do to me than I was.

I wanted to tell her that she didn't need to worry. That I had it all under control. I had a plan. A fucking excellent plan. I gave her the most confident smile that I could muster and pulled away. Unsurprisingly, I stood out more in this new cafeteria. Unsurprisingly, I had no one to sit with. All of the other girls in my class had grouped up or paired off. They were nervous, excited, giggly. I had kept the nastiest snarl on my face the entire day. I wanted to keep them all away. Also, unsurprisingly was when a boy in my grade, Adam, came over to the table I sat at and stuck his finger in his mouth and then into my mashed potatoes.

Brittany can testify to my absolute obsession with mashed potatoes. It's the one thing that made me seriously reconsider joining the Cheerios when Sue gave out her list of approved foods.

Adam laughed. Loudly. He cheeks pushed into his eyes as he licked the white remnants off his finger. The surprising part? I used my plasticware to stab the meaty hand that rested on the table and while he was busy with the searing pain my spork had caused I punched him square in the face.

All ninety four pounds of me behind a wicked left hook.

He fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding nose and bawling. I was seething. If it hadn't been for the swift hands of the art teacher Mr. Bristol I would've walked my ass to his side of the table and started kicking.

My parents were livid, but understanding. Abuela told me that violence was never the answer. _Ever_. But later that night while I was supposed to be sleeping I could hear her arguing with my dad. He wanted to reprimand me in some way. Abuela said that if he did he would be just as much of a bully as that kid I had knocked out. She was proud of me. I could hear it in her voice. Not because I had taken out some overweight kid, but because I had swung. I didn't take their shit.

The next day my dad told me that I couldn't watch television for a week. My abuela took me shopping and every day of my punishment thought of some "help" she needed me for around her house and I spent my days catching up on the glory that was Nickelodeon in the nineties. She never told me to keep it secret, but when I went home those nights and my parents asked me what I did, I made up these half-believable stories of arduous housework.

I'm positive they didn't believe a word.

The school tried to expel me after what my parents had prudishly referred to only as the "event." It was so silly the way Adam's parents acted. Like I had given him a broken wrist.

Or a broken rib.

It's like they totally didn't remember the fact that their greasy, good for nothing, piece of shit kid stuck his dirty finger in my mashed potatoes.

My dad took care of it though. He explained what he could about what happened to me in Florida. He told them I was still "healing." When I heard that I wanted to grab him by his face and give him a nice firm pop and remind him that he is a man with a PhD and he should know that there is a likelihood that some scar tissue doesn't heal. It just sits there and festers.

I was nine years old and there were things I couldn't comprehend inside of me festering.

I got off with two months of after school detention. They seemed to buy the crap my dad was feeding them about my emotional state. (Although I'm sure he left out the tiny part about his mother quietly egging me on). Oh and he also covered all of Adam's doctors fees and then some. He donated a sizable amount to the school to help build the new library.

No one messed with me after that. They were too afraid to. I know I gave them good reason. But, still. When people are afraid to talk to you for fear of their safety it's kind of hard to make a friend. And everyone was afraid. Or at least, I thought.

Brittany wasn't the first person I loved. She doesn't know that. She thinks she is and I'm not about to tell her any differently. It makes her feel special. I like making her feel that way.

The first person I loved was Casey Briggs. Granted I was nine-years-old but I like to think it still counts for something. She had gotten herself in trouble so she could be in after school detention with me. We spent an hour every day after school for like three weeks catching each other staring and then pretending we didn't see anything. It wasn't until I got out of trouble that she decided to speak to me. We were in the cafeteria and she asked if she could sit with me. I told her no and she sat down anyway. When we both realized that we had matching Buttercup bed sheets all bets were off. We were inseparable. Of course nothing sexual happened. We were nine years old you perverts. But I spent every moment of every day thinking about her. When I wasn't thinking about her, I was with her. When I wasn't with her, I was trying to find a way to get near her. She moved after the year ended. I cried a fucking river that summer.

Because of my irrational emotional state my brother was convinced that kids were messing with me again so he spent his days scouring our neighborhood for bullies and yelling at the ones who got too close to our house.

He chased Tommy Morrison and his kid brother with a baseball bat when they refused to proceed down the street in a timely manner. He'd be chasing Tommy Morrison's kid brother away from my bedroom window soon enough so it's good that he was getting the practice in.

In all honesty, I don't know why I'm doing this. It's a Friday night and I have a party to go to. Brittany's already there and she's getting restless if the incessant text messages my phone is being barraged with are any indication. Everything is so different now. I feel different now.

I feel like I thought I would feel after the first time I let a guy fuck me. Noah to be exact.

All brand new and shit. Grown up and independent and I don't know, mature? No, that can't be the right word.

Finn Hudson is a fucking douche. Let me go on record in saying that. And just in case, _you_ are reading this Finn, let's get a few things clear.

You suck. Your mother sucks. Your father sucks. (I'm pretty sure that's why he went off and got himself all killed and whatnot). You're going to be a Lima fucking loser until the day you do me, whatever woman you've tricked into having your giant, doofy babies and the world a favor and die. I wasn't ready for this. And you can keep on preaching about how that skeezy ass pizza guy was going to out me anyway, but that still doesn't wipe your slate clean.

You couldn't think of a proper insult, so you decided to force me out of the closet. You decided to put your disgusting, pasty face into a relationship that had nothing to do with you. It's taken me a fucking long time to believe her. Three years, if you're interested in a number. But, I know Brittany loves me. Brittany loves me the way you hope Rachel loves you.

I can say with one hundred percent certainty that if I asked Brittany to give up her dreams and rent some flea bag apartment with me on the outskirts of Lima, she'd do it. She'd do it because our love is bigger than her dreams. (And I fuck like a champ).

Could you tell me with the same certainty that Rachel would do the same?*

Abuela's birthday was today. There was cake and a huge dinner and dancing. She turned 63. I didn't get to go. My parents thought that it would be beneficial for everyone if I stayed home. They didn't want to cause a scene and have the family start asking question. I heard my mom tell my brother, Abuela didn't want me there.

Maybe that's why I started writing this.

This is not my fault, you know?

I adapted. I evolved. I became the person she told me to become. Crisp and clear. Santana, don't you take anyone shit. I didn't. I haven't.

They made me an angry kid.

Biology made me an angry teenager.

Brittany's calling again. I'm going to be on her shit list if I don't shut up soon.

Pillsbury said that I needed to talk this out with someone. I hate everyone. Except Brittany. But, every time I breach the subject and I get a little dark, her blue eyes get all cloudy and sad. I won't be responsible for that. She has perfect eyes.

And abuela, I don't hate her. But, I'm not so sure she feels the same way about me.

It's just...

I don't take things well.

Wait. Let me be more accurate.

I'm a natural planner. A born list-maker. I see a person, _I break them down_.

From those kids at school.

To the "therapist" my mom forced my dad to pay for.

To me.

Except no one warned me about breaking myself down. I gutted myself and out sprung secrets and lies and in the aftermath of that self-pity: truth. But, I didn't want it.

I mean who the fuck wants to dig into your insides and pull up that you're in love with your best friend?

Someone's knocking at my door. I have to go.

_Satan L. is offline. _

*Finn Hudson- Don't you dare try and pretend that you have an inkling of a notion as to what good sex is. Humping you was like getting beat in the stomach by a 300 pound sack of sweating potatoes. I was more sexually satisfied by that mannequin I got drunk and frenched.


End file.
